


Tricking (or Treating) Dean

by Evil_Knitter (Nichneven13)



Series: -Ing Dean Series [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Kid!Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-29
Updated: 2010-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2652848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichneven13/pseuds/Evil_Knitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halloween is near and Dean wants his daughter to dress like her Papa. Crack!fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tricking (or Treating) Dean

**Author's Note:**

> Third in the -Ing Dean series. Now there's a kid. Awesome.

Dean palmed the keys to the Impala, humming the refrain of “Darkside of the Moon” as he reached for the black plastic bag on the floorboard. He was proudly amused of his purchase—and eager to show it to Cas.

“They just woke up,” Sam said as Dean bounded onto the porch. “I made cider. It’s on the counter if you want some.”

“Cider?” Dean paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Dude.”

“It’s for tomorrow night,” Sam defended his actions. He rightly interpreted Dean’s ‘dude’ as ‘that’s Martha Stewart gay, man’. “Every house is supposed to have something to share with the parents out with their kids.”

“Dude,” Dean said again. He had a magical gift for imparting entire paragraphs of thoughts with that one little word. In this case, he merely meant ‘that makes it way gayer.’

“What’s in the bag?” Sam asked, because yeah, okay, making hot cider for the desperate housewives of Palmyra Way _was_ pretty gay. He didn’t bother reminding his brother that he had only made the cider to help out Dean’s very gay angel. “If it’s anything from Nancy’s Nook, please lie to me.”

“It’s a costume,” Dean said with relish.

“I told you to lie to me!” Sam clamped his eyes shut before Dean could whip out whatever leather/latex/rubber monstrosity he procured for his Special Time with Castiel.

“It’s for Mary-Claire,” Dean said and then leveled Sam with a piercing glare. “Why do you always go to my sex life? It’s weird the way you fixate on that, don’t you think?”

“Fixate?” Sam spluttered in embarrassed outrage. “You—the two of always—son of a—jerk!”

“Settle down, bitch, I was just messing with you,” Dean laughed at his brother’s discomfort and then gestured toward the house. “Come inside and see what I got our girl.”

Sam obediently followed, but only because when it came to his niece, he was wrapped tighter than a coil around a clicky pen. She wasn’t quite two years old, but none of the men could remember their lives before her.

Mary-Claire Winchester sat in the middle of the living room floor, a sprawl of blocks fanning out from her as if she was Godzilla and had just leveled Tokyo. Her hair was flaxen and hung straight to mid-shoulder, where it abruptly curled into fat ringlets down her back. She grinned up at her Daddy and held her arms out for him to pick her up. It was the one dictate that Dean never hesitated to follow.

“You spoil her,” Cas said from his perch on the couch where he folded miniature jeans and plaid shirts in pastels. It wasn’t really an admonishment, seeing how Cas was no better on the spoiling front.

“Of course I do,” Dean admitted before returning his full attention to his daughter. Mary-Claire babbled nonsensically—and earnestly—to Dean, pointing at the mess on the floor. Her crazy-blue eyes were wide and pleading… and distinctly puppy-like. Dean cast a look over his shoulder at his little brother. “Did you teach her the puppy-dog thing?”

“I plead the fifth,” Sam said, which meant ‘hell yeah, because I know from experience how well it works on you. Gotta give the girl a leg up.’

“Pup-pee gog?” Mary-Claire squirmed in Dean’s arms, looking for the aforementioned pup-pee gog. “Da? Pup-pee gog?”

“Sorry, kiddo,” Dean said. “No puppy gog, uh, dog. But I did get you a present.”

“Pwe-cent!” Mary-Claire clapped her hands, her anti-possession bracelet tinkling from the movement, and struggled to get down. Dean put her on her feet and crouched down to bring himself closer to her level. “Wot pwe-cent?”

“A costume for Halloween,” Dean told her, reaching for the bag leaning against the couch. “We’re going trick or treating tomorrow. Do you remember I told you about trick or treating?”

“Yes,” Mary-Claire said even though Dean was pretty sure she was just placating him so he’d give up the goods.

“You were serious about that?” Cas asked as he rolled a pair of tiny socks into a ball. “I thought we were going to stay in and hand out candy with Sam. It’s getting cold. I don’t want Mary-Claire to get sick.”

“Dude,” Dean said with a patient sigh. Cas pursed his lips because he understood that Dean meant ‘she’s a perfectly healthy toddler, not an ebola-inflicted octogenarian.’

“We never got to trick or treat when we were kids,” Sam said even though it was more for the benefit of hearing his own voice than educating his audience. “The McWinchester _has_ to go trick or treating.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call Mary-Claire  _The McWinchester_ ,” Cas growled. He hated the combination of his daughter’s first two initials with her last name. He slid off the couch to sit behind his daughter, just in case her still unsteady legs gave out on her. “She’s not two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.”

Dean laughed, because he loved Cas’s dry delivery.

“I can call my niece anything I want,” Sam ruffled Mary-Claire’s hair, making her giggle. “Isn’t that right, McWinchester?”

“Yes, McWincessta,” she said, reaching out to wrap her pudgy fingers around one of Sam’s ginormous fingers, even as she looked desperately between her fathers. “Pwe-cent now?”

Dean reached into the bag and slowly drew out a white costume. Glitter fell to the floor around his heavily booted feet.

“Oh my god,” Sam laughed and quickly swung his head to capture the look on Cas’s face. “What do you think, Cas?”

“What is _that_?” Cas asked. His head jerked to the side in a Cas-of-old curious tilt that was mirrored by Mary-Claire. “A ghost?”

“Salt!” Mary-Claire shrieked. “Saaaaalt!”

Sam grinned at The McWinchester’s ability to quickly assess and diagnose a ghostly situation. Cas and Dean grimaced and ignored it. They would Have Words with Sam later about the things he was teaching their daughter. 

“No,” Dean reached back into the bag and pulled out a set of feathery wings. “It’s an _angel_.” 

Cas’s mouth fell open with an audible pop. Sam barked out a series of almost painful laughs. Mary-Claire squealed and plunged her hands into the soft feathers that reminded her of her own beloved Papa’s wings.

“Do you like it?” Dean asked the little girl who pushed the wings to her face and laughed as they tickled her cheeks. 

“There is no way in H-E-double-hockey-sticks that Mary-Claire is going trick or treating as an _angel_ ,” Cas said, and while he kept his tone even for his daughter’s benefit, his blue eyes were spitting H-E-double-hockey-sticks-fire at Dean. “You know angels don’t look like, like, Precious Moments figurines! Plus, it’s… it’s… _blasphemous_! Yes, it’s blasphemous!”

“You’d rather her go as a wendigo?” Dean asked, not as successful at keeping his voice neutral. He gently tugged on the wings in Mary-Claire’s hands; pulling them away and shoving them back in the bag. When she whined and strained toward the bag, Dean shot Cas an injured look. “I thought you’d like it. I’ll take it back and get the fudgin’ ladybug or something.” 

“But…” Cas said feebly. Sam’s puppy-dog look might work like wax paper on a metal slide for Dean, but Cas’s weakness was the forward curl of Dean’s shoulders that screamed disappointment… and Dean darn well knew it.

“Angel,” Mary-Claire whimpered, her fingers opening and closing around the air above the costume bag. She turned her freckled face to Cas and blinked, her ridiculously curly eye lashes kissing the tops of her round cheeks. “Papa, angel pwease?”

“Son of a female dog,” Cas sort of cursed. Dean smirked because he knew that Cas could never resist Mary-Claire’s one-two punch of ‘Papa’ and ‘pwease’. “Yes, my littlest love, of course you may be an angel for Halloween, the most ungodly day of the year.”

Dean shared a celebratory grin with his tiny daughter before handing her her wings. A white headband fell out of the bag and rolled to the floor. 

“Is that a halo?” Sam asked, leaning over Dean to pick up the headband with its wire and sparkly gold pipe cleaner circlet above. “Fudgecicles,” he said, because cursing was strictly prohibited around The McWinchester. “It totally is. Cas, do you have a halo? Can we see it?”

“You know very well that I don’t,” Cas said in a sing-songy voice as Mary-Claire showed him her glittery wings. “And for the record, Sam, you breed with the mouth of a goat.” 

Dean threw back his head and laughed, because that was pretty darn funny, even if it wasn’t in Enochian.

“Show me,” Mary-Claire stood in front of Cas and tilted her head quizzically. Cas returned with a tilt of his own. Dean secretly thought the pair of them looked like they’d injured themselves after a night at The Roxbury. “ _Wings_ , Papa. Pwease. Show me.”

“Oh, of course,” Cas stood up in a single stretch of muscle, reminding them all that he was made of stronger stuff than man. “Come on. I don’t want to burn Uncle Sam’s eyes out of his sockets.”

Mary-Claire giggled at that and let her Papa swing her into his arms. They always went behind the house for Angel Show and Tell Time. Cas had learned the hard way that wings had the propensity for smashing every single dish in the kitchen, and breaking the spindly-legged chairs in the living room. Although he tended to conveniently forget those important facts whenever Ikea released a new catalog.

“That kid is priceless,” Sam said reverently, watching Cas disappear out the back door with the most-loved little girl in the world in his arms. Dean knew Sam loved Mary-Claire more than any human that ever lived, including himself, and he was okay with that.

“You know The McWinchester thing bothers Cas,” Dean said with a chuckle.

"Dude,” Sam snorted. “ _You’re_ the one that came up with that one!”

“And if you ever tell Cas that,” Dean leaned forward to make sure Cas had made it all the way outside. He valued his sex life. “I’ll kick your balls into your brains.”

“Nah,” Sam waved him and his honest threat off. “I like to torment him too much to ever give you credit for it. Are you really taking Mary-Claire trick or treating?” 

“Just a couple of houses. Then we’ll come back here and hand out candy,” Dean admitted. “It’ll be too cold to keep Mary-Claire out too long. I don’t want her to get sick.”

“You live to torment Cas, don’t you?” Sam shook his head and grinned. “You’re as overbearing as he is. I don’t envy Mary-Claire’s future boyfriends.”

“Shut the fudge up,” Dean yelled, scrambling to his feet like a demon had just burst down the front door and started to read rhyming poetry. Of the small number of things Dean Winchester was scared of, the thought of his much-worshipped daughter _dating_ was at the very top. “God, Sam. What’s wrong with you? She’s only two!”

Sam laughed loud and long. Taunting Cas and Dean about The McWinchester’s future dating life was his favorite past time. Of course, it also made his stomach coil and his skin crawl, but really, he had at least eighteen years to get used to the idea. Because dating? Yeah, no way in You-Know-Where would Mary-Claire Winchester be dating until she was _at least_ twenty. Probably twenty-two, and only if the guy could pass the requisite tests and background checks. And then, Sam swore, they’d tale her with weapons in hand.

“I’m going outside,” Dean groused, scooping up the rest of Mary-Claire’s costume as he went. “Why don’t you come with?”

“Jerk,” Sam said, because seriously, he _liked_ his eyes. And because he _really_ wanted to see Cas’s wings, and he couldn’t.

“Bitch,” Dean threw back, because his daughter wasn’t in earshot. He paused at the back door and watched Mary-Claire run with her arms out like an airplane and her wings strapped to her back. Cas trailed behind her, slightly hunched over as he slowly shuffle-ran in her wake. His wings rippled and glittered in the crisp fall air. Wait… glittered? He slid open the glass door and called out: “Hey, Cas, why are your wings all glittery?”

“Gwitter!” Mary-Claire hollered, turning to pelt Cas with a handful of shimmery sparkles.

“That’s why,” Cas said seriously. “There was a packet of the perfidious stuff attached to the wings. Your daughter discovered it.”

“It looks…” Dean swallowed a laugh. He knew it would take a lot of work to get the glitter out of Cas’s feathers, but the slightly purple sheen really was quite becoming. “Um, hot. No, really, it’s totally hot.”

“This was your idea,” Cas reminded him with an accusing point at their joyous child’s wings. His perturbed features smooth at once into a happy smile. He would sacrifice anything to see Mary-Claire laugh like she was in that moment, even if it meant allowing her to believe that her Papa desperately needed purple glitter on his wings. 

“Best idea ever,” Dean said with a grin of the inordinately pleased.

“Agreed,” Cas said with a nod of the perpetually happy.

“Gwitter!” Mary-Claire said with a giggle of the unconditionally adored.


End file.
